THAT night, Quentin went to look for Cornejo at the print-shop where La Víbora was published.

The shop was situated in a cellar, and contained a very antique press, which took a whole day to print its fifteen hundred copies.

“For the next number,” said Quentin to the poet, “you’ve got to make up a poisonous poem in the same style as those that have been published against the Alguacil Ventosilla, Padre Tumbón, and La Gardu?a.”

“Good. Against whom is it to be?”

“La Aceitunera.”

“The Countess?”

“Yes.”

“The devil! Isn’t she a relative of yours?”

“Yes, on the left hand side.”

“Let’s have it. What must I say?”

“You already know that they call her La Aceitunera?”

“Yes.”

“And you also know that she has no morals to boast of?”

“Yes.”

“Well, with that you’ve got it all made. As a sort of refrain to your poem, you may use the quotation she wears on her garters; it goes like this:[228]
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.”

“Very good; but give me an idea.”

“Do you need still more? You can begin with a poetic invocation, asking every crib in Cordova who the lady of such and such a description is; then give hers; including the fact that she wears garters with this motto engraved upon them:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.”

“Good! For example: I’ll say that she has black eyes, and a wonderful pair of hips, and—”

“An olive complexion.”

“And an olive complexion ... and I’ll finish up with:
Y ésta leyenda escrita en la ancha liga,
que tantos vieron con igual fatiga:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.

(And this legend written upon her broad garter, which so many men have seen with the same feeling of fatigue: etc.)

“Eh? How’s that?”

“Very good.”

“All right, it won’t take a minute to finish it. What shall I call the poem?”

“To La Aceitunera.”

“It’s done. How would you like me to begin like this?:
Casas de la Morería;
Trascastillo y Murallón,
ninfas, due?as, y tarascas,
baratilleras de amor.
[229]

(Houses of La Morería, Trascastillo and Murallón; nymphs, mistresses, and lewd women, second-hand dealers in love.)”

“You may begin as you wish. The idea is that the thing must hurt.”

“It’ll hurt, all right; never fear.”

Cornejo finished the poem; two days later the paper came out, and in cafés and casinos, the only subject of conversation was the Countess’ garters, and everybody maliciously repeated the refrain:
Intrépido es amor;
de todo sale vencedor.

The following night, Quentin was waiting for the poet in the Café del Recreo. He had made an appointment with him for ten o’clock, but Cornejo had failed to appear.

Quentin waited for him for over two hours, and finally, tired out, he started to go home. As he left the café, a little man wrapped in a cloak came up to him at the very door.

“Listen to me a second,” he said.

“Eh!”

“Be very careful, Don Quentin, they are following you.”

“Me?”

“Sí, Se?or.”

“Who are you? Let’s hear first who you are.”

“I am Carrahola.”

“Aren’t you angry at me for what I did to you the other night?”

“No, Se?or, you’re a brave fellow.”

“Thanks.[230]”

“Well, Se?or José has sent Cantarote, the gipsy, and me to go home with you.”

“Bah! No one interferes wi............